


Orange Ball of Love

by letsgogetlost



Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 2016: dumpster fire, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, dumpster bros, texting is important to modern romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:05:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9129316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letsgogetlost/pseuds/letsgogetlost
Summary: "Originally, Matt had been planning to leave the guy in the dumpster."In honor of the end of this dumpster fire of a year, some dumpster bro romance, complete with dumpster fire, for your enjoyment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because we all need some dumpster bros in our life.
> 
> Four chapters, fairly slow burn - all are written, I'll post them over the New Years holiday. Some tags will be added as the story progresses.
> 
> Set vaguely after Fraction Hawkeye, but with no major spoilers. Also set vaguely in the Netflix Daredevil world, but not specific about where it falls in the show's timeline.
> 
> Un-beta'd, so, apologies for any mistakes that may have slipped by me.

Originally, Matt had been planning to leave the guy in the dumpster. He was unconscious, but breathing, and bleeding, but not enough to be dangerous. He’d be fine.

And that would teach him to get in Matt’s way. Daredevil was the resident vigilante of Hell’s Kitchen, everyone knew that. There was no need for some reckless archer asshole to get involved and land himself on his back in a dumpster.

And yeah, _maybe_ he’d ended up there after tackling one of the night’s bad guys right off the edge of a building, and _maybe_ he’d saved Matt from a nasty injury in the process, but he was still on Matt’s turf, and he’d left arrows sticking out of about four buildings and broken a window, too.

So, Matt was going to leave him there.

But then he smelled the smoke.

It only took him a moment to zero in on it, and he let out a mighty, put-upon sigh and swung down from the roof, doing a neat flip at the bottom of the fire escape before walking over to the dumpster.

Something was definitely on fire. Something under the interloper. Nasty, oily smoke that trickled up around the inert body and said ‘there’s restaurant grease in here that might go up like a bomb.’ So he reached in and hauled the unconscious man out of the dumpster, then dropped him unceremoniously on the asphalt a few feet away.

He patted the archer down. Nothing on fire… nothing even singed except for the quiver on his back, which had almost burned away entirely. He was wearing some serious tactical gear. That showed he wasn’t just some amateur, some newly-minted vigilante riding on Daredevil’s coattails. His gear was heavy and hard and if it hadn’t been high quality, it definitely would have gone up in flames when the quiver did. As it was, the archer was just a little warm, with a sliver of low-level burn on the back of his neck - like he’d brushed up against something hot, not like he’d just been on fire.

He was also still very unconscious, and after a moment, Matt shouldered the man’s weight and headed for home. He told himself it was because the dumpster fire was raging now, and seemed likely to turn into a dumpster explosion, but really, he was just curious what an Avenger was doing operating solo in Hell’s Kitchen.

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When Clint woke up, he was in pain, and confused. He remembered falling from the roof, swinging with a grappling hook arrow, and hitting the dumpster, but nothing after that.

And he definitely wasn’t in the dumpster anymore. He was sitting up, for one thing, and - _futz_. He was tied up. He fought against the ropes briefly, testing their security, then huffed a sigh and looked around, trying to evaluate where he’d ended up and what he could do about it.

He was inside - in a warehouse or maybe one of those sparse artsy lofts that were practically warehouses anyway. The windows were big, and the light kept shifting - there was a big, flashing billboard outside. He didn’t recognize it, but that only meant he wasn’t in Bed-Stuy or Midtown. There wasn’t a lot of furniture he could see, and between that and the annoying lighting, he figured it wasn’t someone’s house.

Something shifted across the room - a person. Man. Silhouetted against the shifting light, making Clint squint.

It was the man from the roofs. The vigilante he’d heard about, the so-called Daredevil.

The silhouetted figure came closer, shifting enough that his face was partially lit, and Clint could see that he was speaking, and that he was annoyed - shoulders up, like he wanted to fight. That either meant that he was just a fighty guy (not unlikely, given his nighttime hobby), or that he’d been talking for a while without any reaction.

“Hey,” Clint said. “I don’t know if you’re trying to interrogate me or just monologuing, but if you want me to understand you, you’re gonna have to turn on some lights.”

There was a long, still moment, and then Daredevil crossed the room and switched on the overhead lights.

Clink blinked and looked around again. There was furniture, and a door opening into another room where he thought he saw the edge of a bed. So it was an apartment. Loft. Whatever. It seemed weird that Daredevil, he of the secret identity, would bring a stranger into his house though, so maybe it wasn’t - maybe it was abandoned. It was a little rough looking, and barely lived in. Could even be a squat, from what Clint could see.

And as to Daredevil… not much of note, really. His outfit was dark, but not black like Clint had assumed - it was deep red, like clotted blood. And he still had on that weird mask, like a creepy version of Cap’s cowl. Clint was about 95% sure this guy wasn’t a bad guy, but the outfit didn’t help. And the ‘good guy’ theory also didn’t explain why he had Clint tied to a chair. Unless he though Clint was a bad guy?

And why did everything smell like burning?

 

Daredevil crossed the room again, and Clint shouted “Hey!” as the guy suddenly grabbed the chair he was tied to and spun it around.

Clint was ready to try to fight, or at least duck a punch, but when the chair came to a rest, facing 180 degrees from his original position, Daredevil just plopped down on a worn-out, stained sofa across from him.

Okay, interesting.

There was another long silence, in which Daredevil seemed to be contemplating Clint, and then he spoke.

“What’s an Avenger (doing?) (alone?) in (Hell’s?) Kitchen?”

“I’m not an Avenger, buddy.”

Daredevil tensed, and for a moment, Clint thought he might hit him. “Don’t (lie?) to me.”

Clint sighed. “Fine. Not Avenger business.” His eyes were scanning the room behind Daredevil now, trying to read where he was, how he might be able to get out if he needed to. It was definitely an apartment - he was facing a kitchen and a hallway leading to what looked like a front door. There were coats and a bag hanging there, so someone lived here. 

He missed the beginning of the next thing Daredevil said, but it ended with “Vigilante?” so he made an educated guess that he was asking if the Avengers were okay with him running around as a vigilante on his nights off, or something.

“I had personal business to deal with. And we were fighting the same guys and I’m pretty sure I saved you from getting shot, so, you know, can I go now? Also, was I on fire? I smell like I was on fire.”

Daredevil shifted, and Clint could swear his lips twitched - did he find that funny? Did the impassive Daredevil have a sense of humor?

“You did a 2016 tribute act.”

“Sorry, what?” He understood the words, but really did not get what they meant - but then it clicked, and he laughed loudly. “Dumpster fire!”

Daredevil definitely chuckled that time. “Yeah. I think your quiver (cot? caught.) fire.”

“Aw, incendiary arrow…”

There was a beat, like Daredevil couldn’t decide what to do - was he going to laugh again? But then his posture went rigid, his mouth a firm line of a frown. “I don’t want you (here?). This is my neighborhood. Don’t come back.” 

He stood up, fast, and Clint’s head snapped back, following his movement. That didn’t feel great - it hurt and made him dizzy. Not all that surprising, he’d been unconscious for a while. 

“What are you doing?”

“Knocking you out. I’ll (drop?) you somewhere safe.”

“Oh, come on, man, please don’t, I’m a little concussed already and I swear I won’t tell anyone where you live, Avenger’s honor.”

Daredevil huffed a sigh through his nose and raised his hand.

“Futz, Murdock, come on!”

The vigilante froze. “How…”

“I recognized your coat and bag over there. And I assume you know who I am, so can we just… not do this? If we know each other’s secrets can’t we just keep quiet about the whole thing?”

Daredevil sat down hard, and sighed, muttering something about ‘never should have’ before his face disappeared behind his hand; he rubbed his skin, then slid the mask off, and Clint was right. It was Matt Murdock. One of the lawyers helping him with the legal case about the ownership of his building. The very handsome, slightly redheaded lawyer, to be specific. Clint laughed softly. 

“What?” Murdock asked.

“Nice to see you again. Can I go home now?”

“Yeah, fine.” He got up and started untying the ropes; Clint sighed and rubbed his wrists.

“So, should I just text you next time I need to operate around here, or what?”

“You could just not come to Hell’s Kitchen.”

“I’m trying to keep organized crime from coming back into my neighborhood. It’s free territory now, so they’re trying to move in. Sometimes I have to track them down.”

Murdock was silent for a moment, but then he nodded once, gravely, and Clint took it as grudging permission. A minute later and he was out on the street, stuffing his gear into a bag so he could get back to Bed-Stuy without too many weird looks.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint said he'd text. He does. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there's slight internalized ableism, and a mention of animal death.
> 
> Any mistakes or misspellings are my own, except in Clint's texts. Those ones are all Clint.

Two days after his run-in with the Avenger and his dumpster fire, Matt’s phone buzzed, alerting him to a text from an unknown number. He stuck in an earbud, and his phone read out **’Said I’d text but does that even work for you? - H.’**

He had a moment of confusion before he realized ‘H’ stood for Hawkeye and that he hadn’t forgotten meeting a Henrietta, a Hermione… a Hank?

 **’Yeah’** he typed back. **’My phone reads them to me.’**

**’Cool. Because I don’t hear well enough to call.’**

Matt knew that, Clint - Hawkeye - had told him and Foggy when he’d come to the office looking for help with the legalities of owning an apartment building he’d come into by less than straightforward means. 

The city had been raising a stink about deeds and codes and everything else, so Nelson and Murdock had been helping Barton with stuff like getting valid documentation, working up real leases, and generally letting him do a little good by taking care of his tenants. Matt was still finding it odd to equate that slightly goofy but very sincere man who had been so nervous in the Nelson and Murdock office with the tough, efficient archer he’d fought beside on the rooftops. But their interaction in Matt’s apartment and this new texting thing were bringing the concepts of the two people - landlord and Avenger - closer together.

A minute later, another text came in.

**’Wait. Ur phone reads my texts out loud?’**

**’Yeah. I have an earbud in, my office can’t hear it.’**

**’What kind of voice? Can u make it sound like me?’**

Matt laughed softly, and noticed Foggy turn his head sharply - give it one more laugh, and he’d get nosy about who Matt was texting. **’No. I don’t think my phone can do that. I don’t think any phone can do that. It’s a woman’s voice, I hope your masculinity can cope.’**

**’ACTUAL LOL. And no, I’m good I hope she makes me sound fancy.’**

**’Can anyone? I found you in a dumpster. A dumpster that was ON FIRE.’**

**’OOH, BURN. Don’t insult my 2016 performance art GTG bye.’** Then, almost immediately, **’I’m gonna ask Tony if he can make phones that copy peoples voices.’** Then, **’Maybe not mine no one wants my weird voice in their phone.’**

 **’No, I'd like it. It would be nice.’** Clint’s voice was unusual - beyond his slight Deaf accent, he had a tone of something rural, something very Not New York. Matt had liked it when he’d been in the office. 

There was a pause, so he quickly added a **’Didn’t you say gtg?’**

**’Yeah. Work. Bye!’**

 

When he’d left Matt’s apartment, Clint had said he’d text if he was going to be operating in Hell’s Kitchen. He hadn’t said he’d also randomly text whenever he felt like it, but that was what seemed to be happening in the weeks that followed. 

He sent messages often enough that Foggy and Karen started to ask who Matt was talking to - or, to be more accurate, “Who are you flirting with?” Matt ignored that. It wasn’t flirting, it was just that Clint’s texts were funny a lot of the time, and made Matt smile or laugh at his phone. 

Clint was also constantly annoyed that he couldn’t text Matt pictures of his dog. Sometimes he just described whatever Lucky had been doing to make Clint take a picture; other times, he told whole stories about their Bed-Stuy adventures.

Matt’s favorite story was about a quest to repair Clint’s coffee machine which ended with Clint and Lucky breaking up a human trafficking ring while Clint was covered in bright green house paint. **’It’s STILL under my fingernails’** was the conclusion.

Matt told him just to paint his nails to cover it up. A few days later, he got a message that said **’I just gotta manicure with my friend, that shit is AMAZING.’**

**’What color did they paint your nails?’**

**’Purple, of course. I look grate.’**

That one made Matt laugh pretty hard. He was quickly learning not to assume anything about Clint Barton and what he would or wouldn’t do.

 

At first, the messages had only been once or twice a week. Matt got the feeling Clint sent them when he was bored, and that he got bored fairly often. Matt knew how that felt. But even that didn’t explain the messages’ increasing frequency.

The increase was so gradual Matt barely noticed, but after a while, he was hearing from Clint almost every day. There were some epic stories but a lot of the time it was brief - funny things Clint had seen or Lucky had done, text post memes, jokes or puns he’d made up. Sometimes it was even about business - asking about his case or updating Matt about his work against the gangs still trying to find a toehold on his block.

Matt didn’t even realize he’d started to expect the texts until they stopped. There was nothing for two days, then three, then four, and with each passing day something tightened and twisted in him until he was snapping at Foggy and Karen during the day and maybe hitting bad guys a little too hard at night.

Finally, on the fifth day, Foggy entered the office with an exclamation of “Did you guys hear what the Avengers did?!” and with no prompting spilled an entire story he’d seen on the news, about some wild mission that ended with everyone’s favorite superhero team rescuing an entire Canadian town from a pack of gamma ray irradiated wolves. And under the noise of the story, Matt found himself breathing a sigh of relief, the tight anxious thing in his chest relaxing, unraveling. He was entirely aware of what Clint did, what they both did. He knew it was dangerous. He hadn’t expected to be worried.

He hardly ever initiated their text conversations, but that night when he got home, before he even took off his coat and shoes, he sent off a **’So I hear you’ve been busy.’**

There was a long enough pause that Matt felt a twinge of worry again, but then his phone buzzed in his pocket and, when he pressed the button, read out **’We made the news?’**

**’Of course. How was it?’**

**’Kinda sucked, TBH. Didn’t like shooting the wolves they were just animals that got unlucky. And one bit me, it HURT.’**

**’What??? You OK?’**

**’Yeah, I’m fine. Not gonna Hulk out!! No contamination. But I’m in med so they can watch the bite, make sure it’s healing. Suuuuuuuuuucks. I hate med. Entertain me? What u up to?’**

**’Drinking beer.’**

**’I hate you I want beer. What else?’**

So Matt told him all about his week, only leaving out the parts about how he’d missed him and been worried about him, and how sometimes he caught himself thinking about his strong body and soft laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers come to Hell's Kitchen. Someone gets caught in the crossfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a brief description of a panic attack.
> 
> There's some ASL signing in this chapter; It's indicated by italics and single quotation marks, _'Like this.'_ The grammar isn't accurate to signed grammar. Texts are still in bold, **'Like this.'**
> 
> Any grammar and spelling mistakes are mine, except any Clint makes in writing.

Clint and Matt kept texting over the next weeks, though it was a little less frequent. Clint was busy with what he’d only call ‘Avengery stuff.’ He’d gone two days without sending anything, but then Matt’s phone buzzed while he was eating leftover Chinese food for dinner, and read out **’We’re tracking some baddies and there heading toward HK we think. Team on their tail.’**

So Matt dropped his chow mein and suited up. From the roof he could hear it - a commotion off to the north, people running from something, and behind it the low hum of machinery in pursuit. He headed off to intercept. He wasn’t going to get involved in an Avengers fight, not if he could help it, but he also wasn’t just going to let them, or whoever they were chasing, make a mess in his neighborhood.

 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

 

Clint came roaring into Hell’s Kitchen on the back of Natasha’s motorcycle, screeching to a halt a few blocks from their destination just as Tony and Sam swooped in from above. Steve and Wanda and Thor and Pietro were closing in in pairs, trying to pull a cordon tight around the goons they were tracking before anything went down. They didn’t want these guys to know they were on to them. 

He hadn’t told Matt, but the team was on the heels of a Hydra-affiliated gang who had cropped up in the city a little more than a week before. So far the gang had been lying low, biding their time, but now they seemed to be after something in Hell’s Kitchen. In case it was a set up, the most vulnerable team members, Bruce and Bucky, were back at the Tower doing remote recon and trying to figure out what the baddies might be after. 

Clint wished he could text Matt, see if he had any ideas about what these guys might be after in his neighborhood, but there wasn’t time. There was chatter in the coms - something was about to happen, the gang was converging on a storefront and setting up some kind of machine.

The Avengers closed in carefully, surrounding their opponents before they seemed to notice. Clint, an arrow nocked and aimed at the man who seemed to be the ringleader, gave himself a moment to look up along the rooftops, and saw a familiar silhouette on the corner of a roof, two buildings over from the place the bad guys were targeting. 

He gave a nod, wondering if the vigilante could sense it. He definitely had some kind of enhanced senses, way beyond something like Clint’s good vision. That much was obvious from how he fought. But Clint wasn’t sure how far it went, and the one time he’d brought it up Matt had shut him down so hard Clint had been afraid he was going to stop talking to him completely. And he wanted Matt to keep talking to him - texting with him - so he hadn’t brought it up again.

Tasha definitely noticed Clint’s nod, even if Matt didn’t, and Clint saw her slow grin out of the corner of his eye. He re-focused on the gang. Everything was very quiet - none of the team chattering for fear of being found out, the goons just going about their business.

But then one of them looked up, right to where Tony was hovering about ten stories above, and then another did something, swift and sharp, near the machine, and Clint’s coms filled with too many urgent words before he was yelling “Futz, futz, FUTZ” and ripping them from his ears, because there had been a terrible sound, huge and splitting, and he could feel the coms short out and spark inside his ear canal, which was _not_ pleasant. His eyes had shot up to the rooftops just fast enough to see a dark form drop like a sack of potatoes, and then he looked to Tasha - _futz_ , she had crumpled too, and Steve and Thor as well, though the goons were still moving around, running into the building now - the sound had come from the machine, and it had broken all the reinforced glass on the storefront.

And something bright was coming at him from above, at speed, and for a moment he thought the sound had broken their electronics too and Tony or Sam was falling from the sky. But then Iron Man landed neatly, and laid Sam down on the ground - he must have caught him, because he was as out as the others. Tony gestured at Clint and then the goons, and they ran into the fray together.

It took some doing, but in the end they got them all. Clint still had no idea what the gang might have been looking for, but that was what recon was for. He glanced back - everyone seemed to have regained consciousness, though they looked rough. Steve got unsteadily to his feet as Tony approached, and Clint crouched down by Tasha where she sat on the pavement and signed a quick _’All right?’_

She nodded, and rubbed her ear. _’You?’_

He nodded too. _’Coms shorted out, hurt, but I’m fine.’_ He glanced at the rooftops. There was no sign of Daredevil. Had he taken off already, or…

She nudged him. _’Go.’_

He looked back at the others. They were all busy now, checking in with each other, helping recently-arrived police gather up the bad guys, and inspecting the machine, which must have been some kind of sound cannon. Apparently Clint’s bad ears and Tony’s suit had protected them from its worst effects.

_’I’ll cover for you. Go.’_

He didn’t hesitate again, but ran, disappearing down an alleyway and swinging up to the nearest roof, then up and over onto the one where he’d seen Daredevil. 

 

It took a moment for Clint's eyes to adjust to the dark, but then he saw him. Just a dark bundle, pressed into the corner of the roof’s hip-height wall. He was conscious, but his huddled posture screamed ‘something’s wrong’.

Clint approached him slowly, crouched in front of him. He got no reaction until he touched his shoulder; then Daredevil, Matt, flinched away and lashed out, the move looking less like a ninja and more like a prizefighter about to go down for the count. Clint caught the punch easily and clutched the other man’s hand even as he fought, worming his own hand into Matt’s clenched fist.

All the fight went out of Matt as quickly as it had come. His hand shifted, pads of his fingers running along Clint’s archery calluses before he breathed something Clint recognized as his own name. 

Clint squeezed his hand. “Yeah. It’s me. Can you hear?”

Matt nodded. “Hurts.”

“Okay. I’ll stop.” He sat down so his knees touched Matt’s legs. The other man was still breathing raggedly, and watching the unsteady rise and fall of his chest made Clint think of people having panic attacks. Of Bucky, in particular, but also others he’d seen. He wanted to try to guide Matt’s breathing, help him even it out, but he didn’t want to add to the pain he was in by talking to him. 

After a moment, though, he had an idea, and he rested Matt’s hand in his, palm up, and very carefully spelled out “BREATH,” tracing the letters with his forefinger. Then he started to squeeze Matt’s hand in time with his own breathing - squeeze for in, release for out. Matt seemed to catch on after a moment, and soon some of the tension had run out of him and he was breathing in time with Clint.

“GOOD” Clint spelled, then “HOME?”

Matt nodded, and Clint reached forward and touched his mask; Matt flinched away and said something.

‘CANT HEAR U. WALK HOME. MASK OFF.’ This was taking forever. He wished Matt knew ASL, it would be faster to communicate like this if he could fingerspell to him. Clint wouldn’t have to concentrate as much. 

Matt nodded, and Clint eased off his mask. He looked rough - eyes bloodshot, skin pale and sweaty. Clint helped him strip to the waist so he looked less like he was wearing tactical gear, then did the same to himself, stuffing it all into a tiny foldable duffle he kept among his mission gear for just this purpose. Doing stealth missions you needed to be able to pack stuff away.

He squeezed Matt’s hand, try to communicate ‘be right back,’ then looked over the parapet of the roof - there was still a lot of action down there. Luckily, the building they were on top of had an entrance on the next street. Clint came back and helped Matt up. The other man swayed and looked ready to faint, and was having trouble finding his footing. That wasn’t the Matt Clint had seen before, and it seemed bad. He supported him and hesitated, then had another idea and spelled ‘ACT DRUNK’ into his hand.

Matt, to his credit, was good at acting drunk. They were quiet about it, and Matt still seemed to be hurting, but they got to the street and back to Matt’s with little incident. The few people who did glance their way seemed to write them off immediately. Just two guys stumbling home from a night out, one keeping the other up. 

The public didn’t need to know that they were both half-costumed superheroes and that Matt was stumbling because he was having trouble with curbs and uneven pavement. Clint guessed that had to do with whatever the sound cannon had done to him, because from what he’d seen on the rooftops the night of his dumpster fire adventure, Matt Murdock did not usually have that kind of problem.

 

At his door, Matt pulled a key from some hidden place in his Daredevil suit, and got inside before leaning against the wall of his hallway and sliding down to the floor. He took a few deep breaths through his nose, hands rubbing absently across the familiar floorboards. Clint, meanwhile, was searching for the light switch, and got it on before Matt turned his face up to Clint and mumbled “Thanks.”

“No problem. How are your ears?”

“Not great, but better than on the roof.” He pushed up to standing again, and wavered; Clint caught him.

“Bed?” Clint asked.

“Yeah.”

Clint supported his elbow and got him to his bedroom and down onto his bed. He kept an eye on him as he undressed, in case he wobbled, or said anything. He tried not to ogle his excellent chest or the curve of his ass, but it was hard. 

Matt got into bed as soon as he was undressed, and heaved a sigh, burrowing down in what looked like silk sheets. He was being very tactile with them, Clint noted, one hand running over them, the other clenched in a tight ball. When he relaxed the fist, he turned to where Clint had been standing before - he’d since moved to go turn on some lights. “Clint?”

“Yeah, over here.” 

He was trying to modulate his volume; he seemed to be doing all right, because Matt didn’t flinch, though he did murmur a soft “Damn” and turn to where Clint now stood. 

“What’s up?” Clint asked.

Matt took a breath, eyes shutting tight for a moment; whatever he said after that, Clint couldn’t make it out. He came close again, crouching down by the bed.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that. That weapon made my coms fritz out, I’m just working from lips right now.”

Matt nodded and bit his lip quickly, making it go very pink. “Will you - can you - stay?”

Clint rocked back on his heels. He had _not_ expected that. Despite all the weeks and weeks of texting, he’d actually expected Matt to shut the door on his face as soon as he got him home. It was what had seemed mostly likely after their last interaction in Matt’s apartment. “Yeah,” he said, before he could really think about it. Because he could tell Matt was disoriented and hurting, and he knew how that felt. He knew it was scary. So he could stay, of course he could. “Where do you want me?”

“Here?”

“I can do that.” He stood up and went around to the other side of the bed, stripping out of his tactical gear but leaving on his undershirt and underwear. 

Before Clint sat down, though, Matt, who had turned to face him, spoke up again. “Can you change? Sorry, it’s just…”

“Aw, I smell, don’t I.” He wasn’t very aware of it, but he probably did. Sweat and maybe blood, too. “Want me to shower?”

“No, it’s okay. There are clothes…” He gestured at the dresser against the opposite wall. 

“Got it.”

He crossed the room and changed into some barely used shorts and a t-shirt he found at the bottom of a drawer, all while his brain was yelling something to the effect of ‘What is this, what is happening, this guy you barely know but are crushing on HARD because of futzing TEXTING wants you to sleep in his bed, what. HOW. WHAT.’

When he came back Matt was still curled on his side, fingers of one hand messing with the sheets. “Hey,” Clint said, softly, and Matt turned his head back to him. “Better?”

Matt took a breath and nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.” 

Clint lay on top of the sheets and pulled up a blanket from the foot of the bed to cover himself. It was all ridiculously soft - he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt anything quite like it, actually. It was nice, but also sort of strange.

“Thank you,” Matt said, once Clint was settled. “I know this is weird.”

“It’s all right. Really. You’re hurting and it happened because of us and our business. I can stick around and make sure you’re all right. If you need me, wake me up. Just touching my shoulder is usually good, I sleep light.”

“Me too.”

“When you sleep.”

There was a beat of silence before he said “Yeah. When I sleep." And then yawned, making Clint laugh softly. 

“Rest up, Daredevil.”

“You too, Hawkeye.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Conversations are had, waffles are eaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes a short description of a panic attack.
> 
>  
> 
> I've really enjoyed sharing this story, thank you for your kudos and comments!

When Matt woke up the next morning, everything felt great, if just for a moment. He wasn’t being roused by an alarm after only a few sparse hours of restless sleep. He felt like he’d slept hard, for once. But then something snapped in him, his wakefulness bringing an awareness crashing down on him. 

Everything was _wrong_. He couldn’t… his ears ached and none of his input was right, he only knew he was in his own bed because of the feel of the sheets against his hands, and then he was clutching those tight. It felt like his airways were closing up, his breath coming in stutters and gasps. And then someone was touching him, saying his name, and he hadn’t even known they were there, and he pulled away so sharply he almost fell out of bed, except the other person - a man, solid and warm, low-voiced - caught him, and through the fog of panic Matt knew who it was, and pressed against him. 

A hand forced itself into one of his clenched fists, and he felt familiar skin. Familiar from when he’d shaken the nervous, good-hearted man’s hand in his law office and commented on the calluses, and learned he was an archer. Familiar from when he’d tied up an Avenger in his living room, brushed against his fingers and thought ‘archery, just like Clint Barton,’ before the Avenger had spoken and he’d put it all together. Familiar from the night before, when his ears were ringing so loud and there had only been the rough texture of Clint’s skin to ground him, to keep him from losing all sense of reality.

“Hey,” Clint was saying, low. “You’re all right. Breathe. Do your ears hurt, should I shut up?”

Matt shook his head, and so Clint kept talking, and that was familiar, too - his slightly accented words, the careful modulation.

“Breathe. In… out. You’re all right, you’re just getting over an injury. In… out.”

Clint smelled like Matt, and also like something else - like himself. He was wearing Matt’s clothes, the smell of Matt’s supposedly unscented detergent radiating off him, and under that he was a little sharp with old sweat, a little musky. 

Matt didn’t really notice that he’d pressed a hand against Clint’s chest, feeling its rise and fall, but he did know which t-shirt Clint had chosen, an old one from a student event at Columbia. It had always been too itchy for Matt, but its texture was reassuring now. Grounding. So, too, was the soft movement of Clint’s hand up and down his spine, barely touching him, but _there_. Present in a way little else was in that moment.

 

After a minute, or a few minutes - it was hard for Matt to keep track - Clint pulled away a little, though he didn’t separate completely. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Matt said, low. He felt better, his breath even again, the panic abated.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Matt nodded.

“That machine was a sonic cannon. My teammates are all apparently dealing with reduced hearing this morning, too. But they got checked out, and it’s temporary - does yours seem to be getting better?”

“Yeah. You checked in with your team?”

“Texted.” Clint’s stomach growled suddenly, and both Clint and Matt laughed softly. “You have anything to eat?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay. Want to get up?”

“Yeah.” Just wallowing in bed feeling disoriented and worried wasn't going to help anything. So they both got up and headed for the main room. Matt wasn't as unsteady on his feet as he had been the night before, and he got there on his own, though he had to reach for the doorway and the couch, check where they were, make sure he didn't bump right into them.

Matt curled up on the couch while Clint bumped around in the kitchen cabinets. He was noisy, muttering to himself and knocking things together, and Matt felt vaguely thankful for his muffled hearing, for the moment.

“Clint,” he said, after a few minutes. He had to repeat himself loudly twice before he got a “yeah?” in return.

“Your phone was vibrating.”

Clint laughed. “You’re definitely getting better.” He disappeared into the bedroom, and Matt could hear him looking for his phone before it clattered out of the bed and onto the wood floor. Clint padded back in, and Matt noted that he was bare-footed - the thought made his own sock-clad feet cold, and he tucked them up beneath his legs.

“That door leads to the roof?” Clint asked, and Matt shifted and frowned.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not going anywhere, my friend dropped off some stuff for me.”

“Your friend…”

“Tasha. Black Widow.”

“How does she know where I live?”

Clint laughed brightly. “Tasha knows everything. But don’t worry about it. She knows everything and tells no one.” He headed up the stairs, and came back a minute later, dropping a bundle of something on the couch beside Matt before flopping down himself. 

“What is it?”

“Clean clothes and my hearing aids.”

“Oh.” He unfolded a little, leaning forward - interested. “You weren’t wearing them last night?”

“Hm? I was looking away.”

“You don’t wear your hearing aids when you’re fighting?”

“No. On my own, like when we met, I do without. Sound is just distracting. When I’m working with a team, I use adapted coms. They shorted out when the sonic cannon went off.” There was a pause, and then he muttered “Aw, ow, ears…”

Matt sat up. “What’s wrong?”

“Ugh. Forgot the coms shorted out _in my ears_.”

“You don’t have to wear them if you don't want, we’re getting by okay so far.”

There was a pause, and then two small objects clattered onto the coffee table. “You know, I think I won’t. Just wave if you need to get my attention.”

“Something just went ‘ding,’” Matt said by way of reply.

Clint jumped up. “Waffles!”

 

He served them both toaster waffles and coffee, and they ate in silence on the couch; afterwards Clint collected the dishes and came back with more coffee.

“You don’t have to stick around,” Matt said, when Clint was settled again.

“Yeah, I know. But I’m out of coffee at home.”

Matt laughed, shaking his head. “You also didn’t have to do that last night. I would have been all right.”

“I did, you wouldn’t have, and you know that. I mean, you could have stayed on the roof all night until it started to clear up, but…”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a stubborn futzer too, Murdock. You know how I feel about being in medical. But sometimes everyone needs help. Even futzing Steve Rodgers needs help sometimes. So don’t be all ‘you didn’t have to,’ okay? You didn’t ‘have to’ pull me out of the dumpster, either. I didn’t do it because I had to. I did it because I wanted to. ‘Cause you’re my friend, I think, and you were having a hard time. And I don’t like seeing my friends like that.”

“We’re friends?”

“Aren’t we?”

Matt heard the catch in his breath in that reply, and it made his stomach tighten - he felt bad for causing that. “Yeah. Yeah, we definitely are.”

“Cool. Yeah. Cool.”

They went quiet for a minute before Clint said “Want to tell me about your super senses?”

“Want to tell me about your learning disability?” Matt shot back.

“What… Yeah, okay, point taken.” They both knew things the other had been leaving unsaid.

Clint was quiet for a moment; Matt felt him shifting on the couch cushions. “I’m a little dyslexic, my education as a kid was really shitty, and I was also deaf for several years as a kid, including the ‘learn to read and write’ years. Bad combo. How’d you know?” Autocorrect covered a lot of his sins, these days, so it might not have been from the texting.

“I suspected, your spelling is sometimes a little creative. You’ve confused my screenreader a couple of times. But last night, when you were writing on my hand - that was a good idea, by the way. But your spelling was worse than when you’re texting, and you got some letters backwards.”

“Yeah… sorry.”

“Futz, Clint, don’t _apologize_. I understood you. I always do. But - do you speak ASL?”

“Yeah?”

“You should teach me the alphabet. In case something like that happens again.”

“Yeah. Okay. I was thinking that last night actually. It won’t help my spelling, though.”

“Doesn’t matter. And I’d like to be able to sign a little - communicate with you that way, too. It could be helpful sometimes, couldn’t it?”

“Yeah - uh. It could.”

“What’s up, you sound weird.”

“It’s just a nice thing for you to do.”

Matt grinned at him. “Good. I like keeping up the illusion of being nice.” 

That made Clint laugh, which also made Matt feel better. He felt bad about the ‘we’re friends?’ thing. He’d only been surprised - and pleasantly so - but he understood how Clint could have taken it as a negative thing.

He leaned back against the arm of the couch, making sure to keep facing Clint. “You want to know about my senses.”

“Yeah.”

“They’re enhanced. But you already knew that, didn’t you? It was something in the accident where I lost my sight - the chemicals that were involved. My eyesight was ruined but everything else, especially my hearing, got so much better. Stronger. It was immediate, not like most blind people learning to adapt, learning to pay more attention to their other senses. I woke up in the hospital and I was blind but everything else was _so much_.”

“Futz. That must have been hard to cope with.”

Matt blinked. That wasn’t usually the first reaction people gave him. “It was. It was really, really hard. It took me a long time to get my other senses under control.”

“And that’s why your sheets are so soft, and why you wanted me to change?”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s like a superpower and a sensory processing disorder all at once.”

“Futz, Clint, how do you just…”

“Just what?”

“Just _get it_. No one else has just _understood_ like that.” Other than Stick, maybe, but that was different. And Stick had had no sympathy for how much Matt struggled, whereas Matt could hear something soft, even concerned, in Clint’s voice.

“I dunno. I get sensory stuff, I’ve known people who deal with stuff like that. And I’m around superheroes a lot. Me, I’m just me… I don’t have powers. Plenty of tragic backstory, but not the ‘powers come with consequences’ stuff. But the people I know who do have powers, who are enhanced in some way… other than Thor, because he’s a god… they come with downsides, you know? Steve lost everyone he cared about, lost his life. Bucky… Bucky’s just futzed up. And we all know what Bruce’s downside is. So, like, I get it. You can’t be exceptional without it affecting your life.”

“I’m not going to ask about your tragic backstory, but I’m curious.”

“Another time, maybe.”

“I lied a little. One question. Orphan?”

“Yep.”

“Same.”

Clint laughed softly and shifted on the couch; on the center cushion, their feet touched, maybe accidentally, but neither of them moved away. But then Clint’s phone started to buzz, and he pulled it out, and groaned.

“What?”

“Debrief. Apparently they’ve been putting it off until I show up and the team’s starting to ask questions about where I went. You going to be all right if I go?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” He already felt a lot better than when he woke up.

Clint nudged his shin softly with his foot. “Promise you won’t go out vigilante-ing until you’re 100%?”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. If it was just a bullet wound, yeah, but I can’t fight like this.”

“Okay. Good. I’m holding you to that. If you don’t… no more waffles.”

Matt laughed and nudged his shin, too. “Go to work.”

“Fine. Gonna change.”

He headed for the bathroom and came back a few minutes later smelling more like himself - his own detergent (scented), and his dog, and under it, still, the smell of his skin and of the fight the night before.

“Okay. I’m going. Text me if it gets worse or anything.”

“Yeah. Okay. Uh. Clint?” He was already halfway to the door - futz. “Clint!”

He turned around. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to… maybe… hang out some time?”

“Like, as friends?” He still sounded so unsure about that, and it still made something sharp and a little sad twinge in Matt. He hadn’t handled that well. So maybe it was time to go all in on handling it badly, and make his thoughts clear. At least then they could have a clean break if they weren’t coming at this the same way.

“Yeah. Or…“

“Or…” Clint laughed suddenly, loud and ringing. It wasn’t right, wasn’t his normal laugh. There was something sharp in it and in his voice - like an arrow nocked, ready to fly if everything went to hell. “Really? Aren’t you Catholic?”

“I can be Catholic and like men,” Matt shot back, instantly defensive to cover what felt very much like hurt feelings.

“Oh.” His voice had softened back into something more familiar “I - I thought you probably weren’t into guys, is all.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. Both. I’m bi.”

“Me too.”

“Cool…”

“Yeah, cool. Uh. So.”

“Yeah. Let’s hang out.” Clint’s tone changed suddenly, much more decisive, the hesitation disappearing. “I mean, really, let’s hang out. Definitely. Soon. Just give me a time and place. Text me?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Uh.” He crossed the room quickly and, to Matt’s surprise, planted a kiss on the top of his head. “You’re cute. Bye.”

“You too? Bye?” Matt replied, the words spilling out as rather dazed questions. Clint laughed his soft laugh that Matt liked so much, and walked across the room again, and the door closed, and he was gone. For the time being, at least.


End file.
